


In Our Room

by ClaraxBarton



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Divergent-what Civil War?, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, M/M, Porn with Feelings, References to PTSD, Smut, Snark, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 01:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14461812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: After another Avengers mission, Clint is left questioning his line of work.Or:Good, old fashioned comfort via sexy times.My first foray into Winterhawk. My first foray into Marvel.





	In Our Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts), [luvsanime02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsanime02/gifts).



> A million thanks to Ro for beta reading this and encouraging me in this new venture. You're amazing and deserve all of the amazing things.
> 
> For CB, who played long distance nurse to me this week, and keeps me sane all of the weeks.
> 
> I'm so damn lucky to have you two.

  


_ This _ , Clint thought as he stepped over the threshold of his apartment and dropped his bag of gear on the floor _ , this was why I tried to fucking retire _ .

  


He locked the door behind him, turning bolts, sliding home more, fashioning an illusion of security and isolation, trying to lock himself away from the world on the other side of the door.

  


Clint toed off his boots and grimaced at the twinge of pain that movement elicited.

  


And he was old. Nothing new there - but still.

  


He wasn’t getting any younger, and the bad guys weren’t getting any nicer. Something was gonna give, and Clint was about a thousand percent sure that something was gonna be  _ him _ .

  


“You’re late.”

  


Clint just barely aborted the gesture to reach for his sidearm at the sound of the soft, familiar voice.

  


He forced himself to draw in a deep breath, reminded himself that the locks were on the door, and he looked up to meet the cool grey eyes observing him.

  


“You’re wearing my shirt,” he said.

  


Bucky Barnes, former brainwashed assassin, former best friend and probably - let’s not kid ourselves,  _ definitely _ more - of Steve Rogers, and Clint’s houseguest for the last six months, looked down at the shirt stretched across his muscled torso.

  


The shirt was gray, tight in a way that it definitely wasn’t on Clint, and the black letters were a little skewed.

  


_ Coffee _

_ Chocolate _

_ Men _

_ The Richer the Better _

  


There was something so supremely unexpected in seeing Bucky wear  _ that _ shirt, of all of Clint’s shirts, that it drew him out of the dark spiral of his own thoughts.

  


“Laundry day,” Bucky shrugged, and plucked at the shirt with his right hand, lifting it slightly away and giving Clint a glimpse of his toned abs. “And this is your softest shirt.”

  


“What, you’ve been trying them all on?” Clint crossed his arms and tried to look upset.

  


Bucky shook his head.

  


“Not the ones I don’t want to wear.”

  


Which only meant-

  


Clint shook his head.

  


Bucky was still recovering, still putting back together the pieces of himself that weren’t the ones programmed to do shitty things, still puzzling through life, and his sense of humor…

  


Clint wasn’t entirely sure it could be blamed on having his brain put through a blender periodically for the last seventy years. 

  


“Mission?” Bucky asked. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the kitchen counter. Effectively blocking Clint’s route to the coffee, bedroom or bathroom. Meaning his only options were to  _ talk _ or go back out there.

  


Clint sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face.

  


He sat down on the couch.

  


“Complete. Objectives acquired.”

  


Bucky arched an eyebrow at Clint’s uncharacteristically succinct response.

  


“Casualties?”

  


Clint felt his lips twist, and felt bile on the back of his throat.

  


“Fifteen baddies, Sam’s got a cool new scar, and eight civilians will have all expenses paid funerals courtesy of Stark and the Merry Band of Fucking-”

  


“Barton.”

  


He stopped talking and looked up. He didn’t know when Bucky had moved, but the man had been trained to be stealthy and Clint wasn’t exactly focused on his surroundings at the moment, and now he was kneeling in front of Clint.

  


“Barnes,” Clint growled in an approximation of Bucky’s tone.

  


“How many civilians would be dead if you hadn’t been there?”

  


“More? Less? Who the fuck knows. But we-”

  


“More,” Bucky interrupted. “More would have been dead. You know that. I know that.  _ They _ know that. Clint-”

  


“I don’t want to talk about it,” Clint interrupted, his voice so fucking close to a sob that he couldn’t stand it.

  


Bucky was quiet for a long moment, but then he stood up.

  


“You want to fuck about it instead?”

  


Clint looked up - first at the crotch in front of his face, then up the long expanse of Bucky’s torso, and then at Bucky’s face.

  


“Yes,” Clint breathed, begged.

  


And then Bucky was pulling him up and they were kissing, the rough stubble of Clint’s three-day-old beard scraping over Bucky’s smooth jaw, and their lips meeting in that achingly familiar intimacy that Clint still didn’t understand, still couldn’t get enough of, still didn’t think he deserved.

  


Clint groaned when Bucky’s tongue slid against his, flat-out moaned when Bucky’s hands grabbed his ass and hauled him closer, metal and flesh digging into his skin through the fabric of his tac pants and his boxers, and fuck. Too much was in the way.

  


Clint pulled away from the kiss and tugged at Bucky’s clothes, until the other man took the less than subtle hint and stripped.

  


He was gorgeous, taut skin and smooth metal and scars and-

  


“Your turn,” Bucky said, his voice rough.

  


Clint grinned at him. He fucking loved it when Bucky sounded like that, loved knowing he did that to him.

  


“Actually,” Clint stepped closer, running his hands down Bucky’s bare chest. He tweaked his nipples, earning a soft, shuddery sound that went straight to Clint’s dick. “Remember that bet we made?”

  


Bucky’s eyes narrowed.

  


“What bet?”

  


“About Tony and-”

  


“You cheated,” Bucky growled, and then groaned when Clint raked his short nails across his abs.

  


“I think ‘cheat’ is a harsh word for-”

  


“You cheated,” Bucky insisted.

  


“Fine. Whatever. I still won. And I think it’s time for me to collect.”

  


Bucky’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Clint thought he would say no. But Bucky looked at him - hell, Bucky seemed to look  _ through _ him - and then he nodded. 

  


“If that’s what you need.”

  


Clint swallowed hard.

  


_ Fucking hell _ . It just wasn’t fucking fair for Bucky to understand that much, to  _ get _ Clint and-

  


“Yeah, that’s what I need,” Clint admitted.

  


Bucky nodded and drew him close for another kiss, slow and deep and full of so much  _ feeling _ that Clint was starting to doubt his ability to fuck his way out of this mess.

  


But just when it got to be too much, Bucky stepped back and turned on his heel, leading the way to the bedroom, giving Clint the chance to ogle his perfect ass with each step.

  


The room was tidy, which meant that Bucky had worried about Clint being late, had given in to his need to  _ act _ by cleaning, and Clint felt another little twist of guilt at that.

  


Bucky sat down on the edge of the bed, and then pulled himself backwards, leaving himself on full display, and Clint let himself stare for a moment.

  


That first night, when Cap and Natasha had shown up on his doorstep with a surly Bucky between them, Clint had laughed and closed the door in their faces. But Cap was persuasive and Clint owed Nat and- and he had given in, had let himself become the appointed babysitter for the former Winter Soldier, and the first three weeks had been utter hell, until Clint was woken from a nightmare by none other than the stuff of nightmares himself, and they had sat together in the shower, knees knocking together and the cold press of the tile keeping Clint sane, and traded all of the dirty, impossible secrets that Steve and Natasha couldn’t understand. 

  


It had been another month, a month of almost friendship, of bickering and bantering, and then Clint had made the mistake of trying to tickle Bucky ‘I can kill you seventy-five different ways, and that’s just with my real hand’ Barnes and found himself pinned against the couch, and he’d decided that if this was how he was going to die, he might as well go hard, and he’d kissed the shocked expression right off of Bucky’s face.

  


And now…

  


And now Bucky was laid out like a goddamn feast, and Clint felt like he had been wandering in the desert for his whole life.

  


He knelt on the bed between Bucky’s spread legs and ran his hands over the man’s ankles, up his calves, and across his powerful, sensitive thighs.

  


Bucky held his gaze and held himself perfectly still, his hands gripping the headboard behind him, his eyes steady despite the uneven rise and fall of his chest.

  


“Okay?” Clint had to ask.

  


Bucky gave a single jerky nod, but Clint waited for more than that.

  


“I’m good,” Bucky murmured.

  


Clint kept his eyes on Bucky’s face as he bent down and ran his tongue over a scar on the inside of Bucky’s right thigh. He heard Bucky suck in a breath, and Clint nipped at the unmarred skin below the scar. Bucky whimpered.

  


It was still so bizarre, hearing a man as deadly as Barnes make a sound as desperate and needful as  _ that _ .

  


Clint licked and nipped his way up the thigh, to the junction with Bucky’s hip, biting down hard enough to make the other man gasp and rock up into him, and then Clint worked his way down the other thigh, ignoring the press of Bucky’s cock against his cheek, the little movements of Bucky’s hips as he tried and failed to hold himself still.

  


“Still okay?” Clint asked.

  


“Yes, you evil punk,” Bucky gritted out.

  


Clint laughed at that, and had to crawl up Bucky’s body to kiss him. Which brought him into a lot of contact with a  _ lot _ of Bucky.

  


Clint rolled his hips against Bucky’s, and the other man eagerly matched the move, hard cock trapped between them.

  


Clint pulled away from Bucky’s mouth and trailed kisses over his jaw, up to his ear, and took the sensitive lobe between his teeth.

  


“Clint,” Bucky breathed.

  


“Bucky.”

  


Clint felt the bed shift, and then Bucky’s hand was on his thigh, urging him closer.

  


“Nuh-uh.” Clint pulled back and picked up Bucky’s hand. His metal hand, which could, Clint well knew, crush his fingers and end his Robin Hood Cosplay days real quick.

  


“Clint.” There was a whine to his voice now, and Clint had to grin at Bucky. The other man glared.

  


“Be good, and I promise, it’ll be good,” Clint said, and returned Bucky’s hand to the bed frame.

  


“You promise?” Bucky’s lips twitched as he said the words.

  


“Scout’s honor.” Clint tried to cross himself, but he wasn’t Catholic, and he didn’t think Boy Scouts crossed themselves in any case.

  


Bucky snorted a laugh, a laugh that died in a harshly indrawn breath as Clint wrapped a hand around his cock.

  


“You don’t play fair,” Bucky said.

  


“You’ve mentioned that a few times before,” Clint grinned down at him. He shifted back, finding a better position for himself, and continued to stroke Bucky’s cock. 

  


He used his thumb to spread the moisture leaking from the tip down the shaft, and he felt Bucky shiver under him.

  


“Now, what was it you were saying yesterday about the only good way to shut me up?” Clint asked.

  


Bucky licked his lips, looking down at Clint.

  


“Hm?” Clint prompted, and gave Bucky another tug.

  


“The only good way to shut you up is with a cock in your mouth,” Bucky dutifully repeated.

  


Clint looked down at the thick length in his hands and adopted a surprised expression.

  


“Well - will you look at that? There’s a cock right here. Think it’ll do the trick?”

  


Bucky rolled his eyes.

  


“Only one way to find out,” he muttered.

  


“Mhmm,” Clint agreed.

  


He swiped the flat of his tongue over the head of Bucky’s cock, and the other man just barely kept himself from thrusting upwards. When Clint ran his tongue down the sensitive underside of the shaft, however, he heard the bed frame give a groan of protest under Bucky’s metal grip. Hell, maybe under his other grip too.

  


Not lifting his head, Clint arched an eyebrow.

  


“Sorry,” Bucky muttered, not sounding the least bit apologetic.

  


Nor did he look it, especially when Clint opened his mouth and slowly started to swallow Bucky’s cock, the thick shaft smooth and hot and hard in all of the ways that Clint loved best.

  


Bucky’s eyes closed and his mouth fell open as Clint continued his descent. 

  


He couldn’t quite manage to fit all of Bucky in his mouth, but Bucky wasn’t offering up any complaints. Especially not when Clint started to fondle his balls and tease at his perineum.

  


Clint was pretty sure - positive, in fact - that Bucky didn't have any complaints at all.

  


“ _ Christ _ ,” Bucky moaned when Clint started to move, hollowing his cheeks and sucking as he moved his mouth up and down.

  


As much as he loved his current task, Clint couldn’t pass up a chance like that.

  


He pulled back, and Bucky glared at him.

  


“What-”

  


“My name’s Clint. Or Hawkeye, if you want to get kinky. Or sweetheart, if you want to get corny.”

  


“Clint,” Bucky ground out.

  


“Yeah, babe?”

  


“About that shutting up thing?”

  


“You mean about that me sucking your cock thing?”

  


“That one, yeah.”

  


“I remember. What about it?”

  


“Can you  _ please _ get back to it?”

  


Please. That wasn’t a word either of them said often. Hell. Clint wasn’t sure he had even heard Bucky say that word outside of a few sarcastic moments back in their early days.

  


Damn.

  


It sounded good, in this context, with that look on Bucky’s face. 

  


Clint made a mental note to hear that again.

  


But he did as Bucky asked, bending back down and smoothly taking Bucky back into his mouth, working in earnest now to get him off. 

  


It didn’t take that long, after a few minutes of Clint using his fingers to tease Bucky’s perineum while he hummed along the stiff length in his mouth, and Bucky tensed and then shuddered, his release as silent and intense as it always was.

  


Clint swallowed Bucky’s cum, slowly lapping at his softening cock, letting him come back down, waiting until Bucky tugged at his shoulders before he moved.

  


He laid down on the bed beside Bucky, both of them rolling onto their sides so they faced each other.

  


“Better?” Bucky asked.

  


Clint drew in a shaky breath. He could still taste Bucky. He could still hear their screams.

  


“On a scale of 1 to fucked?” Clint shrugged. “I’m at about a 6. So better, sure.”

  


“Tell me about the farm,” Bucky said.

  


Clint sighed, and then laughed. He rolled over and pulled Bucky against him, until the other man’s head was pillowed on his shoulder and Clint could drag his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

  


The farm.

  


It had been one of Bucky’s nightmares, the first time they talked about the farm. All night sitting in the shower, Clint’s back freezing against the cold tile and Bucky’s eyes looking like thunder until Clint started to tell him about the farm.

  


“It’s, what - April now? Time to plant the peas and potatoes. Flowers, too, I guess. If that’s your thing. Some cool-weather vegetables can start off now too. And grass seed.” Clint pressed his lips to Bucky’s forehead. “Broccoli, cauliflower. brussel sprouts. You like brussel sprouts, Buck?”

  


“Does anyone?”

  


“Steve probably does. God. Tony probably drinks brussel sprout protein shakes or something. Ha. That’s what we should do, Buck, go home and farm the shit out of brussel sprouts and make a fortune marketing them as the food of the Avengers.”

  


“Home?” Bucky echoed, voice soft, the word a warm, delicate puff of air on Clint’s shoulder.

  


“Yeah,” Clint decided. “Home. As soon as we’ve got all of Hydra - as soon as it’s safe, Buck. We’ll go home.”

  


“Scout’s honor?”

  


“Scout’s honor.”

  
  


-o-

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
